


On Paper

by The_German_Grim_Reaper



Series: Dogs & Butterflies [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Daemon Touching, Daemons, Episode: s01e01 Apéritif, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, I've literally never read HDM what am I doing, Jack Crawford shows up but he gets like 1 line, M/M, Mentioned Mischa Lecter, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 01, no beta we die like Antony Dimmond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29453154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_German_Grim_Reaper/pseuds/The_German_Grim_Reaper
Summary: “Do you have trouble with taste?” Lecter asks him, and Will finally looks at him.  Not at his eyes- no, that would be too much- but he gets at least the vague impression of his face.  His eyes catch on a blaze of orange and Will realizes that what he’d thought was a pocket square is actually a butterfly perched daintily on his lapel.“My thoughts are often not tasty,” Will retorts.  Before Doctor Lecter can say anything else, he continues, “Is that your daemon?”or:Will's daemon is strange.  Hannibal's daemon is a butterfly.  They don't get along, and then they do.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Dogs & Butterflies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2173734
Comments: 36
Kudos: 252





	On Paper

**Author's Note:**

> "On paper, things can last forever. On paper, a butterfly never dies." - Jaqueline Woodson, Brown Girl Dreaming
> 
> (or: I asked for title suggestions and this quote is too beautiful *not* to use, so please just pretend my fic is worthy of something that deep.)

Will knocks on the door to Jack’s office, already dreading this meeting. Not only had he been dragged into the field against his will- damn Jack and his guilt trips- but then Jack had the audacity to yell at him for not getting enough results. He isn’t sure which this will be- scolding Will again or making false apologies to keep him in the field- but either way, he isn’t going to like it.

Jack opens the door and Will steps inside, Max trailing at his heels. Jack’s own daemon, a rather large Great Dane, lays on the floor beside his desk. Max glowers as the other dog but doesn’t say anything. The two of them have never gotten along.

To Will’s surprise, they aren’t alone. There is another man there, sitting in one of Jack’s chairs and giving Will a smile in greeting. At first glance, he has no apparent daemon.

“Will, I’d like for you to meet Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Doctor Lecter, this is Will Graham.”

Doctor Lecter stands up and holds out his hand for Will to shake. Will took it with a smile that feels more like a grimace and lets go probably sooner than was polite. “Nice to meet you,” Lecter says, still with that disarming smile. Will does not reply.

Sitting down in the other chair, Will waits for Jack to speak.

He starts talking about the Shrike, the missing girls, and the dozens of false confessions they’ve received. Will doesn’t pay much attention. He already knows that the Shrike, whoever he is, won’t have confessed. He’s far more focused on making sure Max doesn’t start a fight with Jack’s daemon; that’s the _last_ thing he needs. Then Jack mentions Freddie Lounds and Will can’t help but make a comment.

“Tasteless,” He says under his breath, still not deigning to make eye contact.

“Do you have trouble with taste?” Lecter asks him, and Will finally looks at him. Not at his _eyes_ \- no, that would be too much- but he gets at least the vague impression of his face. His eyes catch on a blaze of orange and Will realizes that what he’d thought was a pocket square is actually a butterfly[1] perched daintily on his lapel.

“My thoughts are often not _tasty_ ,” Will retorts. Before Doctor Lecter can say anything else, he continues, “Is that your daemon?”

Lecter blinks, clearly taken aback by the change in subject, but he nods. “Yes,” he replies. “Her name is Noré.” As he speaks, the butterfly flaps its little wings slowly, as if showing them off, and then makes the quick flight from Lecter’s jacket to the desk in front of them. She lands only inches from Will’s fingers.

Will pulls his hand, which had been resting on the wood of the desk, back towards himself. Although he doubts Noré would be careless enough to touch him, the proximity is still unsettling.

“Most people keep insect daemons behind glass,” Will points out. It’s easy enough to avoid touching larger daemons, but with something so small, it would be all too easy for someone not to notice and accidentally cause Lecter and his daemon a lot of pain.

Lecter’s smile seems tighter now, more forced. “Well,” he says. “I am not most people.”

Will figures he’s well within his rights to be annoyed at Will’s comment, so he doesn’t say anything. Ordinarily he would introduce himself to the daemon, or else their daemons would introduce themselves to each other, but Max is not overly social and Noré doesn’t seem overly talkative, either.

The butterfly, apparently finished with her examination of the desk, returns to her place on Lecter’s jacket. This time she’s sitting on his shoulder, not the lapel, but at least she’s safely out of harm’s way. “Not a fan of eye contact, are you?” Lecter asks him, and Will glowers at the floor.

Will had a retort ready on his tongue, but Max is on her feet before he can speak. “Oh, fuck off,” she growls at Lecter, then stalks out over to the door.

There is a moment of stunned silence, Will’s mouth gaping open like a fish, before he stands up. “I would apologize, but, uh… she’s not wrong,” he says, then follows Max out of the room.

He can hear Jack saying something as he shuts the door behind him, but Will ignores it. He’s not an _idiot_ ; Lecter has no background in profiling and was paying far more attention to Will than to the case. Jack didn’t call him in to consult on the Minnesota Shrike. He called him in to consult on _Will_ , which is far worse.

  
  


***

There is a knock at the hotel door. Will groans from where he is entangled in the bedsheets, pinned down by the warm and comforting presence of a daemon across his legs. “Who’s at the door, Max?” he asks her, forcing himself to sit up and rub the sleep from his eyes.

Max[2] raises her head to look at the door. “Lemme check,” she grumbles, standing up and hopping down from the bed. She pads over to the door reluctantly and takes a big whiff of the air. Her eyes narrow and a low growl emits from her throat. “It’s him,” she tells him. “The man from Jack’s office.”

Will scowls and reaches for a pair of pants. Once he’s tugged them on, he walks over to the door and pulls it open.

Lecter greets him with a bright smile, looking far too chipper for this early in the morning. “Good morning, Will. Good morning, Maxine. May I come in?”

Will just stares at him blankly. “Okay,” he says after a moment, stepping out of the way so Lecter can step inside. “How did you know her name?”

“I brought breakfast,” Lecter offers. Will gives him a look and his lips quirk up in a smile. “It’s nothing sinister, I assure you. I simply asked Jack Crawford.”

Will sighs. That’s the answer he’d been expecting to get, but also the one he’d been dreading. “Did he tell you anything else about her?” If he had, this is going to be an even more painful conversation than he’d expected. It’s bad enough talking to psychiatrists at all, but it’s even worse when they realize just how unique his daemon is.

“No,” Lecter admits, although there is a glint of curiosity in his eyes. Now, of course, he knows there’s something else to be told. “I prefer learning things directly from my patients, not through any secondary sources.”

As he speaks, Lecter pulls three ceramic containers out of his bag. Will watches him warily. He sets two of the containers on the table, then hesitates with the third. He directs his eyes towards Max, who is sitting a few feet away and watching him intently.

“I brought a portion for you as well,” Lecter tells her, “although you mustn’t feel obligated to eat it. I know some daemons aren’t fond of human food.”

Max just looks at him.

“Max isn’t a fan of talking around strangers,” Will explains.

“Ah,” Hannibal replies, setting the dish down in front of Max regardless. A brief pause, and then, “Noré doesn’t talk at all.”

Will’s eyebrows raise despite his best efforts not to show his surprise. He’s heard of voiceless daemons, of course; if a human was deaf or mute, their demon was as well. There are also daemons who are too shy to talk in public, of course, and daemons like Max who just don’t _like_ talking to people. He had simply assumed that Lecter’s little butterfly was one of those, but from the way he worded it, it sounds as though he’d been wrong.

“Where _is_ Noré?” he asks after just too long of a silence, hoping Lecter isn’t too offended by his surprise. He doesn’t see the little creature anywhere.

Lecter smiles. He holds out his arm and Will watches, enraptured, as the tiny orange butterfly crawls down his arm from where she must have been hidden behind his shoulder. She stops just short of Hannibal’s hand and, although she is much too small for Will to make out any sort of a face, he gets the impression she is looking up at him with wide eyes.

“She really is beautiful, Doctor Lecter” Will comments, admiring the way her orange-spotted wings opened and closed.

Lecter’s smile widens and Will has a feeling this was the right thing to say. “Trust me, she’s well aware,” he says dryly, but there is a hint of pride in his tone.

Suddenly, Will feels rather guilty about the way he’d treated Lecter during their last meeting. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry about how I reacted the other day,” he blurts out, still avoiding Lecter’s eyes. “It’s not your fault Jack decided to spring a psychiatrist on me, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“Yeah,” Max says, looking up from where she has been devouring her bowl of food. “Sorry.”

“I accept your apology,” Lecter tells him graciously. A pause, and then, “There’s no need to stand on formality. Please, call me Hannibal.”

  
  


***

“And what are we looking for?”

“At this stage, anything really,” Will tells him. “But mostly anything peculiar.” He debates for a moment on whether to share this next bit of information, but ultimately decides that as his psychiatrist, Hannibal will probably be finding out sooner or later regardless of what Will says or does. “Anyone with a stag daemon.”

Hannibal blinks, clearly taken by surprise. “A stag daemon? I didn’t take you for the type to use daemons in your profiling.”

“I’m not.”

“Current theories suggest that the Shrike is male. Are you suggesting otherwise, or merely that the Shrike’s daemon is a same-gender pair?”

Will sighs. “I’m not _suggesting_ anything. I think the Shrike is a male, but it’s technically possible that he’s not. Either way, his daemon _is_ a stag.”

Hannibal tilts his head slightly, curiously. “And how do you know that?”

“He knows from me,” Max pipes up from the back. She is sprawled over the backseat, one leg dangling over the edge, with Noré perched delicately on one of her paws.

Hannibal’s face is hard to read, but Will is fairly certain he’s frowning. “Pardon?”

Will winces. “Uh. I have my empathy, and Max is a part of me, so she gets… side effects.”

“Side effects?” Hannibal repeats. “She can determine the shape of their daemons?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that, but yeah.”

Hannibal leans forward then, directing his gaze very intently on Will. Will fidgets uncomfortably, wanting to escape the scrutiny, but stuck in the driver’s seat with no way to redirect the other man’s attention. “The copycat killing yesterday,” Hannibal says slowly, “for example. Max could sense the killer’s daemon? That’s a… unique gift.”

“No,” Will disagrees, shaking his head. “Well, yes, it is unique, but it’s not a gift. And she couldn’t sense the Copycat’s. I couldn’t get a good enough read on him with my empathy for that.”

At that, Hannibal almost seems to relax, which strikes Will as slightly odd. Still, Will doesn’t have time to think about it because they’ve arrived at their destination.

  
  


***

Things go haywire as soon as they pull up to the house. There are two daemons outside, grazing on the grass of the front lawn. One is a large, strong stag with imposing antlers. The other is a young doe[3], still a fawn really, that looks at Will with wide and desperate eyes.

“Hurry,” the fawn cries, “before it’s too late."

They’ve hardly finished speaking when the front door opens, a blonde-haired woman stumbling outside with blood gushing from her neck. She collapses on the steps and Will can see the exact moment her daemon turns to smoke in her arms. The stag daemon is charging at the fawn, antlers aimed to kill, but Will knows he won’t win a fight against a monster. Max is charging over to protect the fawn while Will pulls out his gun and moves inside the house.

It’s a bloodbath. Garret Jacob Hobbs is holding a knife to his daughter’s throat and even though Will does his best to save her, it takes ten bullets to put Hobbs down and only one movement to slice open her veins. In that moment, Will can’t help but empathize with Hobbs. He falls to the ground beside the girl and does his best to hold her neck together until help can arrive.

Then Hannibal is there, pushing Will’s hands away and replacing them with his own. Their eyes meet and Will thinks, just for a second, that everything is going to be okay.

When the paramedics have arrived, Will walks outside only to see a tall and imposing stag standing guard over the bleeding fawn. He strides over and practically collapses into Max’s side in relief, stroking her coarse fur and doing his best to chase Hobb’s shadow out of his head.

Hannibal is standing behind him when he pulls away. “That looks like Hobbs’s stag,” he points out. Will nods silently. Hannibal hums in consideration before stepping closer, holding his hand just above Max’s flank but not close enough to touch. “You don’t just sense their daemons, then,” he says to Max quietly. “You _become_ them.”

Max glowers at him with her pitch-dark eyes. This is apparently enough to snap Will out of his daze and in moments Max is back to a regular form, a beautiful tricolor mutt with another daemon’s blood dripping from her teeth.

The fawn daemon is trembling on the ground, holes in their side where the other stag had gored them. There’s nothing they can do about that; if Hobbs’s daughter lives, the fawn will heal, and if not they will both die.

  
  


***

Abigail Hobbs lives, of course. She is left with a scar on her throat and her daemon with several scars on their side, but she lives. Jack Crawford wants them to take her back to Minnesota, back to the house where everything went wrong, to see if she gives anything away. Will agrees only reluctantly.

The realization comes when they’re outside of the Hobbs house, ‘cannibals’ spray painted across the walls, Cassie Boyle’s brother trespassing in the yard. Abigail’s friend says something rude and something in Hannibal’s expression changes. Will isn’t quite sure what to make of it until he sees Hannibal glance over to Max, who is sniffing the ground Nick Boyle had just fled from, as though he’s debating something internally.

“No,” he says.

Hannibal turns to look at him, his face the picture of innocence. “No?” he asks as though he doesn’t know _exactly_ what Will is talking about.

“No,” Will repeats. Then he strides away, taking Max with him, leaving Hannibal to deal with the fallout of Nick Boyle’s impromptu visit. He doesn’t think Hannibal will hurt them now, not when Will would clearly know who did it. He should really stay to protect them anyway, but Will is about to have a mental breakdown and he’d rather not be with Hannibal when that happens.

“Fuck,” he mutters, collapsing to the ground on the other side of the house and leaning against the wall. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

It’s not very eloquent, but he thinks it rather gets the point across.

Max looks at him curiously. “What’s happened?” she asks. She must be able to feel Will’s distress, his sense of betrayal, through their bond, but without context she won’t know what to do with it.

“Hannibal _fucking_ Lecter happened.”

Max grows tense, her every muscle itching for a fight. “What did he do? Should I attack him?”

Will shakes his head. “No, you can’t- nobody would understand. Just… just tell me if he’s coming over here, okay? Don’t let him get too close.”

Max nods. She stands guard, ever loyal, while Will buries his head in his arms and begins to cry.

He shouldn’t do this here. He should go back to the relative safety of his hotel room, to somewhere he _knows_ Hannibal won’t be able to find him. But they only brought one car, and he can’t just _leave_ them here, and besides he doesn’t think he’d be able to drive in this state anyway.

There are no footsteps on the grass, but after a moment he realizes there’s something touching his hand. It’s featherlight- too light to be Hannibal’s hand- but it’s definitely _something_. When he opens his eyes, he is only half surprised to see a little orange butterfly resting on the skin of his hand. Of _course_ Noré would follow him; even if she can’t talk, she’ll surely have _some_ way of reporting back to Hannibal on what he’s doing.

Then the reality of the situation sinks in. He blinks, then blinks again. “Max,” he calls, his voice hoarse from crying. “Are you seeing this or have I just gone completely insane?”

Max looks over at him and her dark brown eyes widen in surprise. “If you went insane, I most likely would as well, so I’m not your best gauge for reality,” she points out. “But… yes.”

“Huh,” Will says. Because Noré is _on his hand_ , no layer of protective clothing between his skin and her legs, and yet she doesn’t seem bothered at all. Touching other people’s demons isn’t just a taboo, it’s a way of _torture_ for both the daemon in question and their human. It’s the most intense discomfort imaginable, unease elevated to the level of abuse, and yet Noré doesn’t seem to notice at all.

Noré flaps her wings once. It’s hard to tell, but Will almost wants to say she’s nuzzling up against him. Her touch, although light by necessity, sends shivers of warmth through his body. It’s _comforting_ , and that’s what scares him.

“This doesn’t hurt you?” he asks her softly, although he suspects he already knows the answer. She does not reply; she _can’t_ , if what Hannibal said in the hotel that day is correct. Instead, she flaps her wings and leaves Will’s hand, and the sudden loss of her touch leaves him disappointed. Then she lands again, but this time on his _face_ , and he does his best to hold very very still and not sneeze as she makes herself at home on his skin.

There are people, of course, who can touch one another’s daemons without ill effects. It’s rare, though, only occurring in about forty percent of _married_ couples, and he’s known Hannibal for only a few weeks. This shouldn’t be possible, and yet.

There is a light crunch of grass under feet and Max straightens up, turning her gaze away from Will and Noré and glaring at something around the corner of the house. “He doesn’t want you here,” she says, although her tone lacks conviction.

“I mean him no harm,” Hannibal’s voice assures her from not too far away. Will can’t help but grow tense, but it’s clear from Noré’s level of comfort on his skin that Hannibal doesn’t mean him harm. That, somehow, they’ve grown close enough that they can _touch souls_ without it feeling like a violation.

Max glances over at Will, and Will nods. He’s going to have to face Hannibal sooner or later; he’s stopped crying and doesn’t think he’s about to have a heart attack, so he may as well get this over with now. He wonders what Hannibal did with Abigail and her friend, but he can’t have had time to murder them.

“Will?” Hannibal calls softly, rounding the corner of the house and then stopping dead in his tracks. He can’t be more than eight feet from Will, and yet it seems like an eternity before he takes those few steps closer and kneels down in front of Will. “This is unexpected,” he says softly, reaching out to brush a tear track off of Will’s cheek. Noré flits over to his finger, leaving Will behind.

Will snorts. “You’re telling me? First I find out you’re a serial killer, and then _this_ , and I don’t-”

He cuts himself off for fear he’s going to start crying again. Max moves closer, nuzzling her head against Will’s side. He leans into the silky softness of her embrace and tries to ignore his conflicted emotions.

“I have done nothing to harm you, Will,” Hannibal points out. “Yes, it was I who killed Cassie Boyle and removed her lungs. Yes, until you told me not to, I was seriously considering doing the same with Marissa. But I have not hurt _you_ , nor do I intend to.”

Will shakes his head.

“If you can’t trust me,” his psychiatrist continues, “trust Noré. She wouldn’t be able to touch you if we weren’t bonded, wholly and utterly. That is something that not even I could fake.”

“But _how_?” Will asks brokenly. “We barely know each other. This shouldn’t be possible.”

Hannibal reaches out slowly, giving Will plenty of time to push him away, before gently resting his fingers in Max’s fur. Will gasps at the sensation, a warmth like what he’d felt touching Noré but a thousand times more intense. He feels safe, comforted, _loved_ , and he can’t hide his disappointment when Hannibal withdraws his hand. Max whines, clearly sharing her human’s desire for more touch.

Hannibal smiles, indulging them both with a gentle pet over Max’s ears. “A wise man once wrote, ‘there are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ Perhaps this, our connection, is simply one of those things.”

Will groans at the cliche line. “First of all, that was in _Hamlet_ ,” he says. “Shakespeare was a poet and a playwright, not a philosopher, so really I’m not sure he’s the best authority on this. And second of all, he didn’t even write that. His monkey did.”

Hannibal laughs. “What is a daemon, but an extension of the self? And I would be happy to pull out the old philosophy books if that’s what it would take to convince you that this is real.”

He sighs. “I want to believe you, I really do,” he says. “But I can’t just…” He trails off, not sure how to articulate how he’s feeling.

“We just found out you’re a murderer,” Max explains, butting her head against Hannibal’s hand and then burrowing into Will’s lap. “Our souls feel nice- very nice- but that doesn’t mean we can just forget what you are. No matter how much we want to.”

Hannibal considers that, then nods. “Come to my hotel for dinner. Miss Abigail can join us and we can discuss our situation then.”

Will scans his face for any sign he was lying, then nods when he finds none. “Abigail…? So she _was_ helping her father, then.”

“I believe so, yes,” Hannibal admits. “But she is ours to protect now.” He stands up and offers Will his hand.

After only a moment’s hesitation, Will takes it.

  
  


***

“I helped my father to kill those girls.”

Abigail’s declaration is met by silence, but no one in the room is surprised. They are sitting around the small circular table in Hannibal’s suite. Noré rests on Will’s arm whilst Max slouches by Hannibal’s feet. Abigail’s own daemon, the fawn from before, stands off to the side and watches the proceedings with wary eyes.

It’s Will who speaks first. “We know, Abigail,” he says, reaching out to take her hand in his own. “I was hoping we were wrong, but… we know.”

She swallows, accepting that. “Are you going to turn me in?”

Hannibal shakes his head. “Every one of us at this table is a killer, Abigail,” he tells her. “Each of us in our own ways. We would like to protect you, if you will let us.”

“Why did you do it, Abigail?” Will asks her. He thinks he can understand most of the story just by looking in her eyes, but he would rather hear it from her.

“My father, he… he was always a bit overbearing, but I never used to be afraid of him. But then when Olivia settled…” she glances over at the fawn in the corner. “A whitetail deer, just like him. I think that was when he decided we were meant to stay together. At first I didn’t realize what was going on. I was just going on college tours like every other kid my age. But when the girls I talked to started going missing…”

“Girls who looked just like you.”

Abigail nodded. “Girls who looked just like me. I knew my father would kill me if I didn’t help him, so I… It was my life against theirs, and I chose my own.”

Will sighs. It’s a selfish motivation, the fear of death, and yet not one he can fault her for. “We’ll find a way to keep you safe from Jack Crawford,” he promises. “You and Olivia both.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs, glancing over at the deer in the corner. They move closer, nuzzling against Abigail’s cheek as she takes comfort in her daemon’s presence.

“I’ve never killed anyone besides your father,” Will admits. “You’ve told us your story, Abigail; now I think it’s time we hear Hannibal’s.”

He does feel a bit bad for putting Hannibal on the spot like this, but he _had_ promised to discuss things at dinner. As far as Will is concerned, he had better start talking before Will decides to go to Crawford with this information after all.

Hannibal takes a deep breath, then lets it out. “I killed Cassie Boyle,” he admits, “because I wanted to. And because I wanted to give Will a greater understanding of Hobbs’s motivations.”

He doesn’t mention, Will notices, why he took the lungs. Will has an awful suspicion as to what that reason may be, but he doesn’t dare mention it in front of Abigail. She’s been traumatized enough for one lifetime.

“Before that,” Hannibal continues, “I killed many other people. It all started when I was a young boy…”

And Hannibal explains. Will and Abigail listen in horror to the story of Hannibal’s sister, the little girl whose daemon never got a chance to settle, and how his own daemon had killed the men who killed her. “Noré never went back to a lion form, after that,” he admits. “She would have settled as one, I believe, but after that it was tainted.”

“Going from a lion to a butterfly is… a big difference,” Will observes.

“Mischa’s daemon always preferred insects. Dragonflies, mostly, and fireflies. I suppose that settling as we did was...”

“A way to honor her,” Abigail completes his sentence. That was what her father had done- honor them. Will doesn’t know how she is feeling, but to him, Hannibal’s way of honoring is far superior to that of Garrett Jacob Hobbs.

“And that’s why you don’t talk?” Will asks softly, directing his question to the little insect still resting on his arm. “I can understand that.”

Abigail looks curious, but Hannibal just sighs. “I was mute for nearly two years after what happened. I eventually regained my voice. Noré… didn’t.”

And that, Will thinks, is a sure sign of how much the trauma still affects him. Hannibal may show no outward signs of his suffering, but in order for his daemon- a physical manifestation of his _soul_ \- to remain mute after all this time, it must be intense.

Will reaches out to gently stroke along Noré’s back, careful to avoid her fragile wings. Hannibal visibly shivers.

“I’ll protect you,” Will says. “Both of you. But you have to be careful, okay? No more talking to Freddie Lounds or, or leaving bodies for the FBI to find.”

Abigail nods her agreement, but Hannibal hesitates. “Will,” he begins. “Is this a bad time to tell you that I’m the Chesapeake Ripper?”

Will slams his head onto the table.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  1 Hannibal's daemon is a high brown fritillary, which is widespread across Europe (including Lithuania). Noré is (according to the internet) a Lithuanian name. Images [here](https://images.app.goo.gl/chYKf2FdCmEJpXdG6) and [here](https://images.app.goo.gl/RvyK3L3o5PhdiQq28).
> 
>   
> 2 Will's daemon is one of his canonical dogs from the show. Name comes from the actor. I chose to make Max short for Maxine, but in the show Max has no confirmed name or gender. Pictured [here](https://images.app.goo.gl/aEkBhTDYRttdgM2z8) with Buster.
> 
>   
> 3 Abigail's daemon is a whitetail deer. Yes, Olivia is nonbinary. Image [here](https://images.app.goo.gl/Rs29cU2i65e8aGED6).


End file.
